I will tell you about the road that presses down on me like a heel
when the rushed up dream
with a repressed joy
fills up your hands freshly emerged from the stone block.
We clear the snow off our room and the cry that laid between us,
no one will ask why the clock hands have been cut off,
or why words walk backwards when they no longer follow each other.
We’ll share the same garment, striking the flint
until the light from the shadow will return the shaking to our lips.
(poem published in the volume "catacombe. aici totul e viu" ("catacombs. everything is alive here"), Vinea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, p. 9. English translation: Simona Sumanaru)
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